Mistaken Identity
by Autumn Win-Dow
Summary: "This isn't you," they keep telling her. But the question is, does she know that?


**_Mistaken Identity_**

**By Autumn Win-Dow**

* * *

**DAY**

"This is Hotaru Imai."

The words slipped out of her mouth with ease, as if she had not struggled with her voice for the past month. Now, she could pick up the phone and answer with a name.

There would be no trembling of the fingers, nor would there be a nervous gulp – Hotaru was never a worrier, after all.

One day, however, the caller was someone of whom she _knew_ was tracking her every move, not allowing her any space – for a fairly obvious reason of which she really fought to deny.

"_You answered with-_"

"I'm working, Mr Nogi. Goodnight." She hastily silenced him, before hanging up without a second glance.

After a brief moment of silence, the woman glanced back at her mountains of paperwork. Whatever was printed on the sheets of paper was Greek to her – she massaged her temples, tapped her pen on the desk, swore under her breath.

In short, she was doing things very _un-Hotaru._ People would in fact _pay_ to see her in such a state, though she herself knew that it was impossible. No one was going to be able to see Hotaru for the next month, next year – not until everything could be sorted out in her own life.

"This is Hotaru Imai," she sighed as she answered another incoming call, but the narrow time frame between this and the previous call was too short to be cautious, "and I've told you time and time again that I'm very busy. So please, call tomorrow."

"_You'll just say the same thing-_"

"I'm working-"

"_You always are. This isn't you-"_

"Goodbye."

And for the second time, she hung up without a single thought. But Ruka's words from the other side lingered in her head, and no matter how earnestly she tried to swat these words away, it was a futile effort.

"_This isn't you._"

_No. This is me. He's being absolutely ridiculous._

* * *

**NIGHT**

Mikan remained crawled up in her bed, holding a photo frame close to her chest. The moonlight shone through the ajar windows – creating a luminous gleam against the cold timber. The lights of the city were too bright to make way for the stars in the night sky – amongst the artificial gleam, the sky was merely a black sea.

She suddenly felt something cold under the covers – her flip phone, scratched and chipped from various unfortunate accidents, was still fully functional. Mikan wondered how her phone had reached her bed, recalling the last time she used it in an entirely different building.

Her hand unconsciously reached for the phone, and she flipped it open to reveal the number pag. Certain numbers had faded from excessive contact, and she was fully aware of the very number being urgently called on this very phone.

_Zero, zero, three._

Without a single pondering, she dialled.

_Nine, four, six. Two, seven, two._

The number was visible on the small screen, awaiting the call button to be pressed after. However, she hesitated, as her thumb hovered over it. Mikan knew that her attempting to call her best friend would destroy whatever had been crafted between them – although she missed Hotaru, she preferred her current situation over what would happen if she met her again.

"I can't."

She snapped the phone shut.

"She wouldn't answer, anyway."

* * *

**DAY**

Another day passed with a load of paperwork being as incomplete as it had been the day before, and a woman completely confused about her work environment as she had never been.

She could not help but admire the young Hotaru for having the courage to pursue nanotechnology, even when knowing the amount of paper she would have to assess in order to achieve her goal – money.

Money. It did not seem worth it anymore, now that she was in this position.

Living as Hotaru Imai felt like not only a profession, but an obligation. But there really was no way out of it, except for a phone call to the woman who understood her most.

She betrayed a glance towards her cell phone. It was a smart phone, of the latest technology, but ever since the accident she had forgotten completely how to use it. Even if she wanted to call Mikan, she thought against it, considering that it was hard for her to even unlock the phone.

Once, she had attempted to call Mikan with the work phone, but the numbers would simply refuse to come to mind.

As her fingers absently trailed the number pad, the phone rang.

"H-Hello, this is Hotaru Imai." She attempted to regain her composure.

_"You hesitated, this time_."

This time, it was not the worried voice of Ruka, but the slightly nonchalant tone of Natsume.

"What do you want?"

"_What do you think? I want Mikan._"

The woman gripped the hem of her skirt at the sound of her friend's name. She hastily shoved away all betraying thoughts and replied, "I don't know why you're asking me. Go see her yourself."

"_But Mi-_"

* * *

**NIGHT**

That night was the first time she had laid in bed without the frame in her hands.

Mikan felt too anxious to even look at Hotaru's photograph – there was a growing feeling in her chest that she_should_ attempt to call her best friend, and just thinking about the subject of her anxieties only increased her desire.

She tossed the cold phone in her small hands. Her thumbs constantly twitched to flip it open, at least, and she would stop herself at the last minute.

The woman recalled a previous conversation with Natsume an hour earlier, which had done nothing to convince her to _stop looking at the damn phone._

"_You've got to stop this, Mikan. This isn't you. Hotaru wouldn't want this."_

* * *

**DAY**

She had had _enough_.

She rubbed her temples in contemplation, as her fingers trailed along the number pad again. She was in an attempt to dig the numbers out of her brain, as she felt too pressured in the small office to survive alone.

The woman declared to herself that she would take the consequences – she needed some sort of comfort, in exchange, and that was already more than what she could ask for.

After five minutes of clenched jaws and trembling fingers, she was finally able to input a number.

_Zero… zero._

She continued her dialling of the number, with much difficulty. It took another two minutes to finally recall the number in full, and at that moment, the last move she had to make was to press_call_.

She froze – her finger hovering over the very button – as she thought to herself,_would she answer my call?_

In the end, she forced herself to press the button, hoping for the best of which, she herself did not know.

As soon as the button was pressed, a familiar ringing emerged from the other side of the small room.

The ringing was coming from a scratched flip phone, of which had managed to survive the accident.

She lightly touched her long brown hair as she listened to the melodic ringtone.

* * *

_Multiple personality disorder:_

_a rare dissociative disorder in which two or more personalities with distinct memories and behaviour patterns apparently exist in one individual._

Two women got themselves in a tragic accident, where one disappeared, and one couldn't remember herself.


End file.
